The Carol of the Bells
by Phoenixflame04
Summary: A random, rather melancholic drabble that slipped into my thoughts in the middle of the night.


_Disclaimer: I hold no claim to the amazing production that is the Rise of the Guardians, neither do any recognizable characters or places mentioned here belong to me._

_**The Carol of the Bells**_

_I linger here in the shadows_

_I wander in an eternal dark_

_But what makes a shadow,_

_one could ask_

_What is it that allows no light to trespass?_

_Is it fear, misery, perhaps fright? I know not_

_But still I linger here in the unlit void_

_For I have yet to glance the glow at the end of the tunnel_

It was upon a clear winter night that he danced in the light of the full moon. The darkness bathed in the silvery brilliance, the shadows of trees bloomed in the otherwise still and lifeless wintery glade. His footsteps were silent as he tapped across the frozen lake; star lights in thousands reflected off the icy mirror.

Sparse leaves, bleached of autumn hues, fluttered lifelessly in the howling breeze; the memory of life still lingered among the white blankets and cobwebs of frost. Strands of white and cords of silver strung on tree branches, fragile flowers of frost blossomed on the lakeshore. The artist admired his masterpiece with silent pride; a world of beauty to last till sunrise.

The flickering lights of lanterns cut through the blackness of the night. The frost child abandoned his post at the lakeside to wander closer.

The twenty-fourth December night of the year was quickly growing short; already weeks before had he heard the village children counting the days till Christmas. They came in flocks during the day to gather evergreen branches to weave into wreaths, and the wreaths they bound with red ribbons to hang on house doors: a sign of welcome in the otherwise cold and bitter winter months. They fashioned wax candles to burn brightly in the darkest hour and skillfully constructed adornments out of straw to decorate their homes. The fire pits were piled high with wood; on Christmas Eve not even the farthest nook would be cold. And when Father Christmas arrived with his reindeer and sleigh filled with gifts of wonder, he would enter to find a plateful of cookies and a glass of creamy milk.

Jack Frost strolled down the streets and alleys, a blush of frost coating the ground where he stepped. With a flick of his staff he charmed sickles of ice to hang on roofs; with his fingers he scribbled blossoms of rime on the windows he passed. Never did he allow a wisp of cold to creep inside.

He found himself in a snow covered churchyard. He remembered hearing the church bells singing their lament earlier in the day. With careful steps he wade through the snow barefoot, the cold kissed his soles with every step yet he felt nothing. Kneeling down he brushed white flakes off a small gray stone placed in the shadow of a once blooming apple tree. During late spring white flowers would litter the ground like a quilt of soft first snow. The stone hadn't been here long; the past few decades had failed to blemish its sanded surface.

His memory recalled a girl who used to come here on Christmas Eve, always with two offerings to lay down upon the grave: a bouquet of flowers or branches of evergreen and a single candle. Year after year Jack had silently observed her, from a distance of course, unwilling to intrude upon a personal moment. Of the one-sided conversations spoken in candle light he had only heard sparse snippets. He had learned that they were a sister and brother for that is how the young girl had addressed the stone. Out of pity or loneliness, he knew not, he had decided to keep them company; no-one should spend the one day of the year reserved for time spent with family and loved ones alone.

Now the girl was gone and Jack sometimes wondered if she was nothing more than a fabrication of his own mind. Her words had brought warmth to the winter sprite's otherwise frozen heart; if it was naught but a dream, it was a lovely one.

A cold nip at his nose startled him. It was snowing. Flakes of white fluttered in the air before falling gently down to the ground. In the morning the children would rejoice in the allure of rough snowball fights. Yet still, the peace would last till morn. A soft smile played on his lips.

He placed three frost-poinsettias on the ground; their icy leaves glistened in the pale moonlight. Somewhere he could hear the carol of bells jingling softly.


End file.
